


Skirt The Issue

by Davechicken



Series: The Pilot and his Knight [96]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Poe loses a bet. Kylo won. He didn't even bet.





	Skirt The Issue

Poe Dameron is the single most annoyingly self-assured person the galaxy has ever, ever created. He’s not even _horrible_ with it, he just seems to feel no shame in his body. He’s happy and content, and no matter what bet he loses, he’s indefatigably cheery in the aftermath. 

Kylo doesn’t know why Snap hasn’t realised his bets are never going to pay off, not in the way he intends. Whenever Poe ‘loses’, he owns the forfeit like a badge of honour. Unless what Snap wants is for Poe to have fun with whatever he’s got to do this time…

Which, today, is wear… a skirt. Except it’s not called a skirt, it’s some religious or cultural throwback from an Outer Rim world, which Poe only wore after checking it wasn’t disrespectful to agree to it.

But it is a skirt. It’s a piece of round material that lies close to his knees, and wafts between his thighs. Poe has not shaved his legs, and from under his knee, his delightfully hairy shins poke down into his boots.

And he doesn’t give two flying fucks, does he? He’s standing at the bar, leaning over not-so-subtly, ordering drinks for himself and Kylo.

Just… like it’s normal to randomly, one day, turn up in a skirt. 

It does to _wonders_ to his figure, though. Clinging to his ass, then falling down. Showing precisely the curves of him, and hoisted up by the lean, flashing some lower thigh action.

Kylo needs to stop _drooling_ , damnit.

Poe straightens up, holding the two drinks, and sees Kylo looking hurriedly away. He arches one eyebrow, and sashays over, holding out the glass. “See something you like, soldier?”

“You know damn well.”  


Poe walks past him, sitting down daintily, his knees pushed together, his chest arching forwards in a coquettish attempt to… what?

Fuck this. Kylo downs his drink, and looks pointedly over the rim at Poe, before slamming it onto the table.

“Why, Kylo…”  


“Drink,” he gruffs, past the burn of all the liquor.  


Poe’s smile goes electric, and his drinking is slower, though their eyes meet until his head tips back too much. The gulping of his throat is a promise all of its own, and the minute his glass is empty, Kylo is holding his hand out to pull him to his feet.

Kylo’s working through the nearest place he can take him, ruck that damn thing up, and fuck him. In the toilets? Too public. Out the back? Too many smokers. Alleyway two along from here? Or… ah, yes. In the hangar. Up against his beloved Black One.

Snap sees them about to leave, and Kylo is _sure_ he’s mouthing ‘you’re welcome’. 

Damnit. But even that isn’t enough to stop him tugging his pilot out into the night air. 

“I never knew you cared so much,” Poe coos, all but skipping behind him.  


“Save it for when I’m in you.”  


“But I have _so much_ to give…”  


“I know. Who said I’d let you come then?”  


Poe slaps Kylo’s ass, and then bounces his way in front of him. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Kylo just hopes no one else notices his obvious booty call. Or… that he doesn’t notice them noticing. A little discretion goes a long way.


End file.
